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by 3205



Category: The Stand - Stephen King
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 09:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16344431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3205/pseuds/3205
Summary: In the end, Tom can finally remember.





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Tom Cullen admittedly didn't know much, in the grand scheme of things, but he knew enough, most times. He knew he'd been forgetting more lately; he knew he was an old man now. He, somehow, knew it was near his time. His time for what? That, he wasn't sure of. He just knew it was coming. More often, the days were blending. Tom was never one for keeping time or recalling what day of the week it was, but it was more than that. His days were hazy, sometimes one forgotten altogether and he didn't know where it went. He repeated himself sometimes right in a row, and across the table someone would look at him sadly. Not sad and pitying like they did when he was a younger man, but sad like they knew why and what he'd forgotten.

Tom sipped his coffee slowly, watching the butterflies in the field. He smiled, because he did remember the first time he saw them come back. It was just one or two the first few years, then they'd come in flocks, or groups, or whatever bunches of butterflies were. His mother used to watch them from their front porch; Tom remembered that too. He rubbed at his arm absently, he must have banged it on something or other. It had given him pains the last few days. Standing up, Tom dumped the dregs of his coffee into the dirt and stretched his back. The sun was high now and it was getting hot.

He began the short walk to his favorite shade tree. Well, it was supposedly a short walk, but Tom always found something along the way that captured his attention. He leaned down to pick some wildflowers for the girl who kept up the library. She had helped him get past Curious George and Tom was forever grateful, even if he'd now forgotten again and the girl was herself an older lady. He remembered she liked the orange ones; paintbrushes? Or maybe it was the clovers she liked. Last week, he had known, anyway. His chest clenched abruptly and he dropped his handful of flowers, squinting his eyes closed. He sank to his knees. The shade tree was less than forty feet in front of him, but Tom would never make it there.

Slowly, the pain in his chest lifted. Tom could breathe again. The air was somehow sweeter, and fresh, not stifling like it usually was in the midst of summer. Tom felt as if he were in a dream, almost. Vague memories swirling around inside his head began to take shape. A face always in shadow in his mind was now so clear and Tom knew that face. It was his father, who had left when Tom was only seven, who Tom had forgotten long ago even before he'd grown old. He then saw his mother, her smile, her pale green eyes. The house they had lived in was there in his mind, every detail down to the faded rose-patterned wallpaper in the kitchen, tainted with Aunt Mabel's cigarette smoke. Visions of forgotten townspeople came, those who called him names like 'dimwit' and 'stupid' and told him he was useless, those who were kind and loved and accepted Tom as he was, those who were indifferent and had never spoken to him at all. He remembered them all.

Everything was so sharp and defined and the images kept coming. Tom felt as if his life, his journey, was being presented like a slide show, flicking by faster and faster. His old school where he'd mainly stared out the window all day. Mr. Irwin's ugly yellow barn on the corner he'd walk past to get to town. Holding his mother's hand when they went to the general store and he'd always hope for a root beer at the counter. Arlene Baker, the girl who lived down the road who Tom had known the first feelings of friendship for, then the first feelings of jealousy as she married Peter Blackwell. Lifting milk crates at the dairy farm and being afraid of breaking the rickety ladder to the hayloft. Riding in the back of Jeff's pickup down the dusty roads before Jeff had gone.

They had all gone, one by one. Tom's mother had told him they'd gone to Kansas City. He knew they hadn't; even then, he knew but he had forgotten. Jeff was sick the last time Tom saw him, coughing terribly. He now saw Jeff's red-rimmed eyes in his mind, Mr. Iwrin hacking into his coat sleeve, Aunt Mabel being taken to the hospital miles away. No one went to Kansas City. Tom gasped as his mother appeared before him, lying sick and weak in her bed. Tom had tried to make her comfortable, but nothing worked. She died on a Thursday at 6:03 in the evening. Tom saw the fields behind the barn. He felt the rough wooden handle of the shovel in his hand as he covered her grave. Tom was alone. Everyone was gone.

He remembered the palpable loneliness of those times. How he'd almost gone crazy with only mannequins and statues to talk to. How he'd kept dreaming of Mother Abigail and the man in the corn. How he was afraid to venture to Kansas City alone, for he knew deep down everyone was gone. Everywhere. Tom heard the wheels of the bicycle and suddenly Nick was there. Hope was there; Tom wasn't alone anymore. Then came others. Everyone Tom had met along the way to Nebraska flashed through his mind. Some whose names he had forgotten, those that had died before him, those that still lived. Mother Abigail's legion of souls called to face down the man in the corn. Tom remembered his important work in Las Vegas and all he had done after. Memories flew by so fast now Tom could only register them in hindsight.

The wind blew gently and Tom heard rustling beside him. He opened his eyes and the field was gone. He was looking at rich earth, kneeling in between rows of corn. His shade tree was gone. There was only the corn, the blue cloudless sky, and the distant cry of a hawk. Tom stood and walked down the through the furrow; he knew where he was. Soon, the soft strumming of her guitar rose above the cornstalks. Tom emerged from the cornfield in front of the old porch he knew so well.

"I remember," Tom said, happy tears in his eyes. "I remember it all."

"I know, Tom," Abigail replied, smiling as kindly as ever. "Don't it feel good?"

"Yes, ma'am."

He sat beside her on the porch. She set down her guitar. Neither spoke for a long moment; they sat in comfortable companionship and the warmth of belonging.

"Is," Tom began, but found himself stumbling on the words, afraid to ask, afraid it was a dream.

"Is what, child?"

Abigail's smiling eyes assured him, suppressed his doubts.

"Is this heaven, Mother Abigail?"

"Mayhap is it, and mayhap it ain't," she said, as expected, and chuckled. "I don't rightly know myself, but I know this is where I am meant to be. But not you, Tom. There's more for you."

Abigail pointed a knobbly finger towards the door of the house. Tom eyed the door. He felt a compelling need to enter, but also a longing to stay with her.

"You won't go inside, will you?" he asked, frowning.

"No, I won't. Not yet. I'm meant to be here," she said with finality. "There's more coming, you know."

"I know," Tom said, and he did.

Tom still hesitated, knowing he wouldn't be able to come back to the porch and Mother Abigail if he went inside.

"It's alright, Tom. Some people, they stay on this porch with me for ages before they go in. But they always do."

"What will I find in there?"

"Home," Abigail stated simply.

Tom nodded to himself. He stayed with her on the porch for several long minutes. Making his decision, he reached for the doorknob. Mother Abigail picked up her guitar again and kept her vigil over the cornfield. Tom opened the door and walked in.

"How you been, Tom?"

"Hey, Tommy!"

"Hi, Mr. Tom!"

Voices greeting him from every direction. They were here. They were all here. Waiting for him. Across the room by a brick fireplace were two armchairs covered in orange corduroy, just like the ones Tom's mother had in their living room. Nick Andros sat in one, the other was empty. Nick stood up as Tom approached.

"I saved you a seat, Tom. Welcome home." 


End file.
